For a few (somewhat obvious) reasons, I’ve found a decent amount of success on St. Patty’s Day. Of course, by ‘decent amount’, I’m referring to three singular instances and by ‘success’ I’m referring to sexual intercourse with women.
In my life, I’ve picked up (maybe) 2 or 3 random girls at bars. It’s just never been something I’m good at. Combination of my main weapon being a sense of humor (sarcastic one, at that) which is negated at a loud bar and my crushing lack of self-confidence in that arena, and you can see why that number is so embarrassingly low.
Once (or twice, depending on where you live) a year, there’s a day in the social calendar where we’re allowed (nay, encouraged) to start drinking before noon*. Hard alcohol shots, green beer, and lots of Bud Light. That day, of course, is St. Patty’s Day. Where I live, in Hoboken, I have the good fortune of being able to celebrate the day twice… once a few weeks early in my own town and then nearer the actual holiday in New York City.
Since moving to Hoboken, I’ve only really done the one in town. I’m not that cool, don’t have enough friends. One is, sadly, enough.
Two years ago (meaning, 2013), a friend suggested I come to the city with them for New York’s version of the Irish holiday. I didn’t have work the next day til late, so I figured what the hell, let’s get drunk in the name of a patron saint.
We can cut through some manure here and get to the point where I somehow find myself talking to a pretty attractive young lady. My friends sense what’s happening, they make the smooth exit and let me know where they’re heading, in case I don’t find myself back at her apartment.
She and I leave the bar, both starving for something to eat. The warm, stale air of the bar has been replaced by the chill of mid-March in New York. As we walk towards a Subway, I begin to nervously outline my plan for the evening, any and all cool from the bar now gone in the rush of the city streets.
“So… I was thinking… I don’t know, we’d get something to eat. Somewhere quick. Then, maybe we could go and meet my friends back up for another drink… Or, you know, whatever you want to do. If you don’t want to do that, we can do something else. Really, it’s whatever… I mean…”
Thankfully, she threw me a life jacket.
Continue reading Chronicles of the Single Man, Episode 13: The Opposite of Hot Dogs and Hallways
I don’t care how modest you are, if you’re on Twitter, it feels great to gain a follower.
If you don’t know what I’m talking about then you either A) haven’t lived or B) have some self respect. Or, both.
Am I the only one who actually writes things down? I doubt it, but it damn sure feels like it sometimes.
There’s something remarkably freeing about it, no?
You know what I love? I’ll tell you.
I suppose this feeling could be sub-divided in to “Ever” and “That Season”, but still, the fact remains that there’s something breathtaking about that first glimpse of wide-open, well-manicured green expanses at any of the 30 different major league ballparks across the country*.
This one almost exclusively, I’d have to imagine, is a male-centric feeling. Maybe I’m just not in touch with the female perspective enough, but I just get the sense that more men are doing this sort of daydreaming.
scott spinelli 